Strong of Will
by TheWorstDM
Summary: You, a member of the 19th Fleet, have been trapped in the year 401AC. You've been getting by as a crewman aboard the pirate airship Arrogance, but now you must face facts. It's been far too long since your needs were met. OC x Reader, slowburn, suggestive themes, cartoon violence.


I looked at my watch, then out to the horizon. The sun sat trapped in the Celevos valley to the south. The narrow river that ran it's length shone with the sun's fire and yet, even sheltered from the winds in my nook, it offered no warmth.

"So."

My heart skipped a beat. A flush of frightened instincts swelled within me. Then I felt safe again. The surprise had passed, and the sudden voice was familiar, even homely.

"So," I replied, not bothering to look around.

"Winter is well upon us it seems." The man's voice was low and deliberate. It had a soft cadence running beneath it that was almost a growl or perhaps a purr, like his voice had only half remembered it was to be heard rather than felt.

"Suppose so. I mean, the sun's not bothered to rise, and look at the time. High noon," I reached out a hand and jerked my body back in my resting spot, "Tchik, cadungh." The man actually laughed at that. Or at the very least, he chuckled heartily.

"And just what was that meant to be?"

"An irongonne duel at noon, I saw it in a play recently," I said shrugging.

"Did they use actual gonnes in the performance?" he asked, "iron versions of the bronze hand mortars your little captain uses perhaps?"

"Not real ones."

"Shame, I'd be interested to talk to the metallurgist who could get such a thing working."

"Tch, I'd say you work too much, but I've never actually seen evidence of you more than talking about anything alchemic." I could almost hear the metaphorical feathers ruffling. "They did have a couple of good songs though."

"Oh, a musical!" he perked up, "I thought they'd gone out of fashion. I'll have to take a trip to the capital this year." I snorted,

"Out of fashion?" I looked round at him, "how many years has it been since you last went south?"

"Oh, blimey… Probably more than you've seen." I raised an eyebrow at that one. "Once the days start turning longer here I'll head for more evenly timed climates."

"Don't you usually sleep through most of the summer?" I asked, unsure as to why he wouldn't simply travel through long winter twilight.

"And I barely sleep in the winter, it's true, but I don't want to waste the long night travelling. I used to travel quite often you know. I'm well used to taking care with the time on such adventures, fear not. Besides, the gods know a man my age should sleep more regularly." I mulled on the thought for a moment, and then asked,

"How old are you exactly?" He smiled,

"How old do I look?"

It wasn't an answer, but I felt a want to accept it, and so I looked. If anything he seemed younger than when I had seen him last. It was probably the beard, or rather its absence. There had been grey in his beard, but he'd shaved it to stubble. He'd even cut his hair, I think he had anyway. His age was not completely disguised. You could still trace choice lines across his pale skin, and his cheeks were slightly sunken. His eyes were different though. He had once joked that they belonged to someone else before him, and I almost believed him. They were blue. Not sky blue, not lapis blue, not the blue of any treasure I had seen or stolen. They were lightning blue, thunderstorm blue. They were terrifying and awesome, and they caught the light in ways I had never seen in any other creature. They were his most striking feature. I pulled my own eyes away from his to examine his clothing. It almost saddened me to do so, partly because I needn't have bothered. Despite his eyes, his outfit was the thing most people would notice first about him, and it never changed. He wore a now grey striped undershirt, and over it a jacket and trousers from some kind of military uniform. You could tell it was a uniform despite not sporting armour or tokens of any kind, it just somehow had the feel of it. Both garments were made of the same coarse fabric, which once must have been a deep regalian purple. There was a suggesting it had had elegant trim and epaulettes. Some of the gold thread still remained around the button fastenings, although the buttons themselves were all gone. The whole affair had been damaged in places, and patched in others. The jacket had always confused me on that front. There seemed deliberate cuts in some places, but there was some layer between the linings that was always intact underneath. The glimpses I caught of it looked similar to dark leather lace, woven together like wicker. I'd asked him about it once, he simply said it was 'one of my gifts to old kindred, as this was to me.' My eyes returned to his, and before I lost myself, I answered him.

"You look like a tramp on your way to a job interview."

We stared at each other for a moment. Then, he burst out laughing. I stifled a giggle, trying not to seem too impressed by my own joke.

"Well, I uh, I suppose I can see it," he shook his head, "in some ways that's actually alarming astute for you."

"What do you mean, 'for me?'" I responded defensively. "I can be very astute."

"Maybe you're right, maybe you're right. I can be hard on women your age," he ceded.

"Well," I continued before I realised what I was saying, "I'm a little surprised any others would be interested in a man of yours, I do hope you asked first."

There was a silence between us.

"Any… 'others?'"

"I mean," I was flustered, "you do clean up quite well, and it's not like I have any great picks on the crew, so I suppose, I mean. It's not like I've never thought about it."

We were still again. The wind blew ice crystals across the view from the nook, scattering the sunlight. The sun hadn't moved since he'd arrived, even though it felt like he'd been at my side for a lifetime.

"Would you like to see anything I've got going on back in my lab?" He said, breaking the silence.

"Anything," I answered, my mouth suddenly dry, "anything at all."

It was almost impossible to guess the original purpose of the makeshift laboratory. Dwarves built their homes in such a way as to confuse any intruder, and could well have built this room just as another dead end in the maze. I doubt I'll ever meet a dwarf who still lives in their hold to ask about it though. Excepting the captain of course, but they're generations removed from the last residents.

I was presented with a cane.

"What do you think of, when you see this?" I was asked.

"It's erm…" I wasn't sure what to think of it. I had been rather distracted by my own train of thought, and to add insult to injury, was being returned to the present with what looked like actual work. "Wait, this looks a lot like the shipmaster's axe. Is this yours?"

"Yes, and it certainly isn't an axe. This is a dress cane I used to carry. It's also the weapon of a blackwood. Which," he added, "is convenient as this wood is called blackwood, probably causal, one way or another, come to think of it."

"Why are you- I mean I thought we came here to…" I trailed off.

"I admit, that was the plan," the hesitation clear in his voice.

"'Was?'" I urged, softly.

"The head of this cane," he began, touching the hip bone I'd somehow not seen wired to one end of the walking stick, "It is Otryg bone. Incredibly strong, dense too, perfect for a club." He paused, I gave him space to continue. "The Otryg were a proud and honourable bloodline. At least they were. Until they betrayed their masters. Our masters. They were, expunged." He forced the word out as if drawing a blade from a fallen foe, slowly, with equal parts malice and disgust. "I was there when the last of their kind was destroyed. We took him in his sleep. I stayed to acquire… samples. After everyone had left, I heard her." Something in his expression changed. Before he'd worn a barely masked self loathing. Now he looked, sorrowful. "The Voldesang agents must have missed her scent because she was not truly reborn. But she was sick. Sick with Otryg blood, as fresh shipmasters grow sick with the blood of the Spirit in this age. I don't even know how old she was. I wonder still sometimes, what I must have looked like. A scalpel in my hand, covered with the blood of her would be newfather. I wonder if I still wore the look of vengeance, of justice, as I killed the last Otryg." He mocked the pomp of the phrase. I think he must have been called that once, by people who really praised him for it. I put the stick down and walked with him to sit on a wooden bench. I was lost for words. I was conflicted. I looked into his eyes.

"I am glad you trust me enough to tell me this," I said. He breathed a shaking sigh and seemed to recover.

"Thank you," he said. Returning to his feet he muttered under his breath, "curse this dwarven ventilation." His jacket fell to the floor with a weighty thud. The last few minutes were forgotten. Without his frame looked far less blocky, he was lithe, slim. He took off his shirt. I fidgeted on the bench, feeling the old wood creak underneath me. His skin was pale, his muscles toned. Old scars marked him in a number of places. My eyes wandered, and I grew flushed, wondering what other secrets his clothes hid.

"Close your eyes."

"What," I pleaded.

"Just do it," he said as he turned back to me, taking hold of my wrists.

I did as he said. I wanted to always do as he said. My senses felt sharper immediately. I felt his hands move to my shoulder and then my collar. The lingering feeling of his rough palms was like rope binding my wrists. I could hear the creaking of the bench and rattling of his experiments across the room. His breath was like a chill wind against my face, my neck, the back of my ear. A wave of thirst washed over me, pressing through the hunger to obey. I had to drink him in. I opened my eyes a crack.

"Hey you, you're finally awake," Ralof said, "You were trying to cross the border right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there."


End file.
